Preston Worthington
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“Right. I had forgotten that I shouldn't call you ‘bloody colonials.’”
“I suggest you abandon your weapon, old boy, before I am forced to feed you your fingers.”
I had thought combat duty in the mountains of Afghanistan had been a trail. I bloody well should have stayed in uniform. My life would likely have been far more pleasant and painless.
Alas, it was not to be. I was recalled from my beloved regiment and sent back to London. My father had passed away and as firstborn it was my duty to assume the mantle of Watcher. Something of my disappointment at my lot in life must have been apparent, for the Council saw it fit to send me to America to observe a young potential Slayer.
My luck remaining doubly bad, I arrived at the girl’s hometown just in time to save her from a band of vampire marauders who somehow had divined her status – the girl having just become the Chosen One – and were seeking her death. I leant a hand as well as some pointed advice on how to dispose of the undead.
I contacted the Council with the news that I was in charge of the Chosen One, fully expecting to be relieved of my duty, being after all a rank novice at the business. Instead, I received instructions. Portents and omens pointed to the rise of some great evil.
She has been quite a handful these past few months, with her social commitments and her high society American standards. She even tries to juggle in a love life despite my constant tries to pull her to the contrary. Being the Slayer is what should be top priority on her list. If this great evil comes now, I fear we will be unprepared.
“I suggest you abandon your weapon, old boy, before I am forced to feed you your fingers.”
I had thought combat duty in the mountains of Afghanistan had been a trail. I bloody well should have stayed in uniform. My life would likely have been far more pleasant and painless.
Alas, it was not to be. I was recalled from my beloved regiment and sent back to London. My father had passed away and as firstborn it was my duty to assume the mantle of Watcher. Something of my disappointment at my lot in life must have been apparent, for the Council saw it fit to send me to America to observe a young potential Slayer.
My luck remaining doubly bad, I arrived at the girl’s hometown just in time to save her from a band of vampire marauders who somehow had divined her status – the girl having just become the Chosen One – and were seeking her death. I leant a hand as well as some pointed advice on how to dispose of the undead.
I contacted the Council with the news that I was in charge of the Chosen One, fully expecting to be relieved of my duty, being after all a rank novice at the business. Instead, I received instructions. Portents and omens pointed to the rise of some great evil.
She has been quite a handful these past few months, with her social commitments and her high society American standards. She even tries to juggle in a love life despite my constant tries to pull her to the contrary. Being the Slayer is what should be top priority on her list. If this great evil comes now, I fear we will be unprepared.